


Man's Best Friend

by jazzmilla



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, dog!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 06:51:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzmilla/pseuds/jazzmilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Sherlock accidentally adopts a dog, Lestrade gets an incredible surprise, and Mycroft is unflappable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man's Best Friend

“Come on, play the game!”

Sherlock’s hand hovered near the doorknob. It wasn’t a game, it was chance. The cabbie had a fake gun and an aneurysm and he should have left already because he solved the case, but his hand could not seem to complete that final step. It wasn’t a game, but he could win anyway.

“Not bored now, are ya?”

No, not in the least bit. His hand was shaking, though - that was unusual. The pill occupied his whole line of sight, blurry and immense. He closed his eyes - had the cabbie taken his yet? Impossible to tell by hearing alo-

The back of his head cracked against the wooden floor. His hand came up empty - he could hear the pill bouncing away from him. Sherlock opened his eyes, the tirade against Lestrade or any other foolishly noble officer dying on the tip of his tongue.

The weight against his chest wasn’t from a pair of hands, but from a pair of paws.

The furry beast on his chest did not seem intent on mauling him; quite the contrary, he was steadily looking at him with what on anyone else would be a disapproving gaze. Sherlock blinked a few times and tried to give the dog a tentative shove, but not before a loud shuffling noise resounded from the other side of the room. In a split second, the dog was off of him and growling ferociously at the cabbie, who slumped back down onto the floor.

Sherlock sat up and pulled out his phone as the dog paced slowly around the cabbie. Finishing his text to Lestrade, he walked over.

“Your sponsor. What’s his name?”

“I won’t tell you.” The dog stalked closer, baring his teeth.

“Oh, I rather think you will.”

___________________

“Sherlock, you are pulling my leg!”

“I am doing no such thing. I told you what happened. The dog-”

“Oh for Pete’s sake, enough with the dog!” Lestrade threw his hands up in defeat. “You’re lucky there was actually some stray on scene, otherwise I would lock you up for a night for obstructing justice and possibly for being a bloody idiot. I mean seriously, Sherlock - taking poisoned pills?”

“I was right!”

“Oh, really?”

“Oh, do shut up. You are making more racket than that infernal creature.”

The dog chose that moment to quit barking and try to bite the ankle of the the animal control worker. He jumped back, dropping the catch pole, and the dog sprinted off with it dragging behind. For Sherlock, this crime scene had just become as amusing as the one where Anderson fell into the garbage skip. He had cover his mouth to stifle his laughter as Donovan got tangled in the crime scene tape in her attempt to grab the stick. Twenty minutes later, animal control reemerged from around the corner with it fully muzzled and restrained by two catch poles. The dog thrashed helplessly as it was dragged toward the van. They tried to shove it in a kennel, but the dog twisted in the pole’s loop so viciously Sherlock could see where it drew blood.

“Enough!”

All eyes turned to Sherlock. The dog froze, its breath coming in shallow pants.

“Stop torturing it. Your incompetence is staggering, considering you have just been outwitted by a domesticated animal. Let it go.”

“Sir, I have to take it back-”

“Then give him to me.”

In that moment, Sherlock couldn’t be sure if he or the dog looked more surprised.

___________________

“Sherlock! The inspector is here to see you!”

There was no answer from upstairs, but Mrs. Hudson looked unfazed as she escorted Lestrade in. She led him up, chatting amiably about the awful state of the place, and how Sherlock really should have found a flatmate instead of bringing home stray dogs. Not his housekeeper, and especially _not_ his dog-walker, she pointedly added when they were outside the door.

Lestrade let himself in, pulling out the case files in advance and gingerly stepping over the stacks of papers and books that blocked the doorway. The flat looked like a caravan of scholarly gypsies had attempted to set up camp but gave up midway. Sherlock was lying serenely on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin. Lestrade shoved his way over to the central table, and slapped the files down. Two heads quickly looked up - one from the couch and the other from a box filled with duvets.

“Afternoon,” Sherlock said languidly. The dog yawned.

“I got those bank robbery cases you were eyeing. As it turns out, I could use your opinion on them.”

“What else is new?” Lestrade was too used to that smug tone to pay it any heed. He shoved some newspapers off a chair and sat down. Sherlock stretched and sank back into the cushions.

“Dog! Cases!” he demanded, pointing at the table. The duvet box gave a loud bark.

“Fine. Cases, _please_ ,” he added with a huff. The dog jumped out of the box and onto the chair, grabbed the files, and then leaped onto the coffee table. It pushed the files into Sherlock’s outstretched hand and then, when Sherlock gestured toward his coat, stuck its nose into the pocket and fished out his Blackberry. Sherlock stretched out his hand again, but the dog didn’t move.

“Phone, _please_.” The slightly slobbery phone was placed into his hand. Lestrade opened his mouth uselessly several times before he could find the right words to express exactly what he just witnessed.

“Did you just - did you just say ‘please’ to the dog? You don’t even say ‘please’ to me!”

“He refuses to fetch it otherwise.”

“What? No. No, Sherlock, you have had to train him that way in the first place.”

“Hmm? I thought they came like that.”

“Trained? Sherlock, do you even know how to care for a dog?”

“He does fine by himself.” Sherlock flapped his hand toward the coffee table under which the dog had quietly settled down. “I did my research. He is an Australian Shepherd - he enjoys exercise and having a task to do. I give him both; I open the door twice a day so he can go walk around and he fetches me things. That’s how I happened to find out his penchant for politeness. After the first few times, he refused to budge until I added the magic word.”

Lestrade sighed and rubbed tiredly at his face. He was going to have to tackle this problem one thing at a time.

“You’re telling me he already knows the commands for fetching phones and files?”

“Mmm, quite so. Don’t all dogs come like that? I assume pet stores actually do something besides serve as a small animal repository.”

“Surprisingly no, Sherlock, but - nevermind,” Lestrade finished with a sigh. “You do know just letting him out twice a day is dangerous? He could bite someone or get lost, especially since you didn’t have a collar on him. And you’re supposed to walk them - that’s the point of getting a dog.” Lestrade was attempting to muster his small knowledge of pet ownership, considering that a childhood in the city left him with only fish friends. From the sulky look Sherlock had begun to give the coffee table, he had begun to reconsider this animal adoption business.

“You are supposed to take it to get shots and to get neutered” - at this the table gave a small whimper - “and buy it dog food and small bed. I’m sure there are some documents you need to fill out as well-”

“Yes, yes! Alright. I got the message. Also, you are looking for ex-circus performers, four acrobats and their ringleader. See if you can earn your title and figure out the details without my help.” With that, Sherlock stood up and grabbed his coat from the hook, tossing the files in Lestrade’s direction.

“Come on, get going!” Sherlock gestured impatiently. Lestrade stood up, a little unsure. The dog cautiously peered out from under the table.

“Yes, the both of you!” Then Sherlock turned to face the dog. “We’re going to the vet.”

___________________

Getting into a cab with a dog was nightmare, so Sherlock and Dog (as he is slightly more important than the other dogs Sherlock had met) had to walk twenty blocks to get to the nearest pet clinic. The waiting room was filled with owners clutching their pets protectively, gurgling asininely about how good and precious they were. Dog sat by his feet, staring at the floor. Sherlock quite liked how useful and undemanding he was and also how perfectly sized to sleep in the duvet box. Dog’s long coat was white with a patchwork of black-gray and tan spots, and his eyes were a curious bright blue. Sherlock had absently reached down to run his fingers through the thick hair, when loud barking filled the air. A large black dog had just come out of the vet’s office and seemed to take personal offense to Dog’s presence. Dog tensed and shrank back, scooting under a nearby chair. The owner of the black dog had to physically drag the nasty cone-headed creature away. Sherlock moved so that he fully blocked Dog and wondered how satisfying it would be to kick the other dog for good measure.

The vet (married, three kids, three dogs) had been a little perturbed by the fact that Sherlock had not named Dog yet. Sherlock, in turn, had suggested that she should be more perturbed at the fact that she attempted to cut off a dog’s genitals. Dog had seemed relieved at the intervention. The vet had also found a bullet scar on Dog’s left shoulder, whose origins were proving to be very hard to accurately pinpoint. Simple logic dictated that Dog was most likely part of a police or army canine unit - he was highly intelligent, well-trained, and, under certain circumstances, vicious. High probability of receiving a bullet wound, too. But police and army dogs didn’t just end up on the streets, so the real mystery becomes the identity of his previous owner. Potentially an abusive home? Unlikely - Dog was quite calm around strangers (as long as they weren’t animal control workers), though he did shy away from being petted (likely a vestige of early training). There were turning out to be entirely too many variables to consider, and Bart’s was still a half hour’s walk away. Sherlock really did not see the problem of having Dog ride in the cab - he had a leash and a collar now and Sherlock even offered to put him in the trunk.

Sherlock understood that bringing an animal to the lab was not standard procedure, but there was absolutely no need for Stamford to nearly give himself a coronary. But after he had calmed down a bit and assured himself that Dog was not going to destroy delicate equipment, Stamford almost seemed pleased to see Sherlock and Dog. Dog, on the other hand, did not seem pleased to see Stamford. He had resolutely crawled under the table upon seeing him and refused to budge even when Mike tried to lure him out with lunch leftovers.

“Come on! Who’s a good dog?” Sherlock less than delicately rolled his eyes. “Come on...umm, what’s his name, Sherlock?”

“Doesn’t have one. Responds well enough to Dog.”

“What? That’s not on. You should name him.”

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed. He gave a quick glance about the room. Bunsen, Erlenmeyer, Buchner, Merck, Sigma-Aldrich, Olympus Technologies, Gladstone Pharmaceuticals...

“Gladstone.” Stamford was mollified and continued on with his ministrations. Bringing Gladstone down to the morgue proved to be more of a challenge. Molly ignored all of Sherlock’s charm tactics and continued on about how she would never forgive herself if some dog nibbled on a corpse and how cats are so much more behaved. In the end, Gladstone was tied up (Molly made Sherlock double-knot the leash) outside, and even then, would only let Sherlock in for five minutes.

Luckily, Lestrade texted him about a potential fake suicide before time was up. Sherlock already had one foot in the lift when he heard several loud barks behind him. Gladstone was alternating between looking at Sherlock and ineffectually biting at the tight knot in his leash. Sherlock turned to go back to the lift - Molly was still in the morgue and Gladstone was securely tied. He could be gone by the time she realized he left the dog. Almost as if realizing his situation, Gladstone gave another bark, louder and more demanding. The lift started beeping impatiently. Bugger it, Sherlock thought, as he let the lift doors shut and went to untie Gladstone.

___________________

In retrospect, the decision to bring Gladstone with him had been quite a good one. He had been able to sniff out the particular yellow chrome spray paint with amazing speed, leading Sherlock to the cipher. What was unfortunate was having to leave him outside as he snuck backstage during the circus performance. There really was only so much he could do with the element of surprise. The blood from the cut on his head began to irritatingly drip into his eye.

“Where is the treasure, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock tugged at the rope, feeling the twisting burn on his wrists. His phone was gone, the familiar weight in his pocket absent, and the only one who knew his whereabouts was tied to a lamppost several miles away.

“I don’t know. You’ve made a mistake.”

“You are the great Sherlock Holmes, are you not?” She tossed his wallet to the floor.

“Where is the treasure?”

“I assure you I have not found it. Yet.”

“Did you happen to catch our performance tonight, Mr. Holmes? Perhaps you would like to attempt it yourself?” She gestured at the two men next to her. One of them roughly grabbed Sherlock’s chair and turned it around to face the crossbow. The other slashed the sandbag.

“Anything you wish to tell us?”

Sherlock strained his arms uselessly against the bonds. The chair was quite heavy and tipping it required more leverage than he currently had. Time to lie.

“I know where -”

His sentence was cut short by a gunshot and a scream. It was followed by what distinctly sounded like the tearing of clothes and quite a bit of skin. Sherlock tried to crane his head back, but he could only see the dim reflections of light on tunnel walls. More gunshots, another scream, and then the sound of running feet. Sherlock was alone and the sandbag was getting dangerously light. He rocked the chair hard enough to make it squeak, but it refused to tilt. The weight was nearly brushing the trigger now. Sherlock closed his eyes and suddenly felt himself in free fall.

He landed hard against the asphalt, his face in a puddle. He tipped over, but how? There were hot puffs of air against his fingers and sharp tugs on his bonds.

“Gladstone?” he ventured. He heard a soft bark in return. Sherlock found himself grinning madly.

Sherlock knew the knots would be too tight to undo, so he wasn’t surprised that Gladstone abandoned the enterprise after several minutes. Sherlock heard his soft footfalls retreating, and suddenly felt like something was squeezing his chest.

“Gladstone!” he yelled sharply. An annoyed bark echoed back. Some interminable time later, he felt a cool smooth device being pressed into his palm. Gladstone had found his Blackberry. Sherlock fumbled with the buttons, nearly dropping the phone, but managed to speed dial Lestrade. What followed was a very intense and confused conversation, but the cavalry had been summoned. Sherlock could only hope Donovan would not be included in the procession.

Gladstone migrated over into Sherlock’s field of vision and lay down with his head resting on his front paws. In the dim light, his blue eyes looked strangely golden and the spots of blood around his white muzzle had dried to a rusty brown color. Sherlock’s cut was once again dripping blood into his eye and his cheek had fallen completely numb in the cold puddle. The blood stung his eye, making Sherlock squeeze and contort his face in an effort to keep it out. Something rough and wet swiped along his eyelid and eyebrow, clearing the blood and relieving some of the pain. His head was nudged upwards by cool nose. Sherlock smelled Chinese takeout on Gladstone’s breath - the dog food Mrs. Hudson brought had not gone over well, so just this afternoon he had a meal of lo mein and milky tea. Warm thick fur appeared under his cheek as Gladstone laid down under his head.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said softly. He should have felt more odd thanking a dog, but it didn’t seem to matter right now. He allowed himself to close his eyes and drift off to the gentle rise and fall of Gladstone’s chest.

___________________

Donovan had shown up anyway. A quick browse through the London A-Z guide revealed the jade hairpin. And now he was bored. The wall took another bullet. Gladstone whined and stuck his head under the blanket.

“Oi, Sherlock! What is all this ruckus?” Mrs. Hudson peeked in the doorway, letting out a gasp when Sherlock swiveled around with a gun in hand. Gladstone took the chance of the open door and streaked out of the flat.

“What have you done to my wall, young man?! Maybe a nice murder will pop up soon, cheer us all up,” she muttered as she left.

Quiet. Peaceful. Hateful. Sherlock walked up to the window in time to see Gladstone run across the street. Mrs. Hudson should leave the front door open for when he comes back.

The explosion blew out the front windows.

___________________

“No. I’m busy.”

“Really, Sherlock, must we do this?” Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the floor. “I see you haven’t managed to kill Gladstone yet.” Sherlock plucked viciously at the violin.

Mycroft stood up and handed the files to Sherlock. Sherlock, in turn, gave them a contemptuous look. Mycroft felt something nudge his umbrella - Gladstone was expectantly looking up at him.

“Give him the files,” Sherlock gestured.

“This is sensitive government information. Don’t let him chew it up.” Gladstone grabbed the files from Mycroft’s hand and used his nose to spread them out on the coffee table. He would stare at each paper intently and then push it to the side as he looked at the next one.

“What _is_ he doing?”

“No idea.”

“Think it over, Sherlock.” A truly awful noise escaped the violin, causing Gladstone to yelp.

“Anything there worth looking at?” Gladstone poked around in the papers until he found one he seemed to like. He dropped it in Sherlock’s lap.

“Dull.”

Then the phone rang.

___________________

“Fetch it for me.”

The pink phone stayed silent in his pocket. One pip to go.

___________________

“Boring! I could have got those anywhere.” His voice was tinny over the speaker, muffling any other sounds. Sherlock paced up and down the pool’s edge. Not enough data.

“I had a change of heart, Sherlock. I found something better to do with my evening.”

“Oh?” Sherlock listened intently for a clue, any clue.

A thump and strangled whine resounded over the other end.

“People do get so sentimental over their pets.” Sherlock felt his hand clench tightly enough around the phone to feel the case creak.

“Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Catch. You. Later.” He exhaled slowly and then he was sprinting towards the main street.

___________________

Lestrade pulled up outside 221B fifteen minutes after receiving Sherlock’s call. He was in sweats and a t-shirt, still slightly drowsy and very confused. Sherlock emerged, carrying something large wrapped in a duvet. Lestrade had gotten out to open the passenger door when he saw a dog’s nose poking out from under the blanket.

“What happened? Is he alright?”

Sherlock remained silent. Lestrade shook his head and got behind the wheel. The drive seemed to be made even longer by the stifling silence in the car. Lestrade strained to hear any sound from Gladstone. He furtively hoped they would not be bringing a dead dog to the vet.

There was only one vet at the animal clinic, looking just as tired and disheveled as Lestrade. She eased the bundle out of Sherlock’s arms and took it away on a gurney. Sherlock sat down heavily on a plastic chair, rubbing at the dried blood on his hands.

“Sherlock? Was it him? Was it the bomber?” Lestrade ventured after a while.

A nod was the only answer he got in return. Sherlock’s jaw clenched tightly enough to look painful.

“I’m sorry. He’ll pull through, though, I’m sure of it. Gladstone’s a tough dog if he was able to survive you for this long.” Lestrade grimaced over how awful his condolences sounded. Fortunately, Sherlock was not paying him much attention.

“You should bring him around more often - we’re all pretty fond of him. Even Donovan bought some jammy dodgers. It is still beyond me how a dog could be so fond of tea and jammy dodgers, but then again, he tries to read case files as well.” Sherlock gave an amused snort.

“More like a person than a dog,” Lestrade muttered. They fell back into silence, as the clock ticked slowly on.

The vet emerged an hour later, tentatively calling for a Mr. Holmes. Sherlock’s hands trembled as he stood up.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Holmes. I’ve done everything I can, but the wound did too much damage. He doesn’t have long - the best we can do is to make him comfortable. You may see him if you wish. Just tell me when you are ready.” Sherlock gave a small nod, but remained rooted to the spot. Lestrade gave a heavy sigh and went to stand next to him.

“Do you want me to come with?” he offered. Sherlock shook his head and abruptly headed toward the operating theatre.

Gladstone was half-covered with plain white sheet as he lay on his side, breathing slowly and heavily. His eyes were glazed and unfocused, though he seemed to perk up as Sherlock approached. Sherlock reached out to stroke the white fur at his neck - usually Gladstone would shy away from petting, but this time he lay still, quietly examining Sherlock.

“She says that you are dying. Are you?” Gladstone blinked slowly and gave a soft huff against Sherlock’s hand.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen. Your presence wasn’t supposed to matter.” Sherlock was no longer sure what he was talking about.

“I’m sorry.” The words felt rough against his throat. “I don’t want you to go.”

A warm weight settled over his hand. Gladstone continued to look up at Sherlock as his paw rested on top of his hand. Sherlock didn’t move for several long minutes, and barely looked up as the vet came in again. He wasn’t sure he would be able to move even if he wanted to. He watched as Gladstone’s breathing became shallower and his eyes drifted shut. Then everything became utterly still.

“Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock gently slid his hand out from under the paw as the sheet came up to cover the rest of Gladstone. He turned on his heel and left the room.

Lestrade was waiting for him, chewing on his bottom lip and shuffling in place. Sherlock was relieved that he did not attempt to say anything. The paperwork he was handed seemed to make very little sense - the pen marks he left were jagged and trembling and he found it hard to see as the lights flickered on and off.

Then the power went out with a pop.

A cacophony of barking ensued and Sherlock pulled a small torch out of his pocket. Lestrade had his phone out and was looking expectantly at him.

“It’s not him.” Lestrade relaxed slightly.

“Just a power outage then?”

“Maybe.”

The power came back on as suddenly as it went out. A loud scream broke through the insistent barking. Lestrade and Sherlock were in the operating room in a matter of seconds. The vet had her back pressed against the far wall, hands clamped over her mouth. Her gaze was fixed on the table where Gladstone had been. Tufts of fur covered the floor around the table. A distinctly human arm had slipped out from under the sheet and hung loosely over the side.

“Sher...Wha...” Lestrade was at a complete loss for words. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed on them until he saw stars. This was getting to be a little too much for him. When he opened them, Sherlock had pulled back the sheet. Oh, God. There was definitely a man on the table. Lestrade had to fight the urge to close his eyes, get in his car, and go back home to his bed.

“Sherlock, what the fuck? More importantly, _who_ the fuck?”

Sherlock pressed two fingers to the pulse point right above the leather collar.

“He’s alive. We have to get to a hospital.”

Sherlock rode in the backseat, the man draped as a dead weight across him, his head supported firmly in the crook of Sherlock’s arm. The collar peeked out from his coat pocket. Laura, the veterinarian, was next to Lestrade, gaze fixed resolutely away from the backseat. Lestrade sympathized.

At the hospital, Laura left, possibly for the bathroom or possibly to talk to the resident psychiatrist. Lestrade and Sherlock were alone in the waiting room again.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock was back in his element, fingers steepled under his chin and eyes boring a hole in the wall.

“Tell me the truth. Did you wish _really_ hard?”

The incredulous look he received in return was well worth it.

___________________

Of course it was only inevitable that Mycroft would show up. Sherlock would not be surprised to learn that he had a hand in tonight’s events.

“And what have you gotten yourself into this time, brother mine? I have heard some interesting tales of tonight’s events.”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Mycroft.”

“I have brought something that might be of interest to you.” He produced a thick file. “Some information on your mystery man.”

Lestrade and Sherlock unconsciously leaned forward as Mycroft opened the file.

“Doctor John Hamish Watson. Born February 19, 1978 in Rothbury, Northumberland. Parents deceased, older sister Harriet Jane Watson, real estate agent, resides in London. Trained at St. Bart’s. Ex-RAMC and Special Air Service. Invalided home as a result of a gunshot wound to the left shoulder five months ago. Reported missing four and a half months ago - declared dead by suicide four days later. No body was ever found. Until, it seems, now.”

Mycroft pulled out a military photograph from the file and passed it to Sherlock. It was him - blond hair, slightly tired face, and bright blue eyes. Same as Gladstone’s. This was the final straw for Lestrade.

“But how is this even possible?! These things don’t just... happen...” He dropped his head in his hands.

“I’m afraid not even we can answer that question, Detective Inspector. But I think, soon enough, Dr. Watson might.”

By the time the nurse allowed visitors, Mycroft had to restrain Sherlock from barrelling through the door in his excitement. John blinked woozily as they entered and made a weak attempt to sit up. Sherlock took a step closer, barely getting a chance to open his mouth before John’s eyes widened in shock and he shook his head frantically. Sherlock stopped in his tracks.

“No. You need to leave,” he gasped. “Get out. Please.”

“I would have thought you knew me better by now, _Gladstone_.”

“Please go, I’m begging you.”

Sherlock sat down instead. John closed his eyes and exhaled slowly through his nose, turning his head away.

“Do not make this difficult, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft intervened. “The faster you explain, the faster you can have your life back.”

John stared defiantly back, jaw clenched. Sherlock had to admire a soldier that refused to listen to orders - so fascinatingly unconventional.

“John, please,” Sherlock prompted, his tone soft. John frowned at him but seemed to relent. He chewed on his bottom lip for a few long moments before he began.

“My sister was ill. I had just been invalided home when she was hospitalized for liver failure. They told me she wouldn’t qualify for a transplant, because...well, because you don’t give an alcoholic a new liver, just like you don’t give a shit driver a new car. I offered, but obviously it was too much of a risk in my condition. I didn’t know what else to do - she’s the only family I have.

It was a stupid idea, but I was out of options. I just happened to find the paper when I unpacked. I had saved a man’s son from an IED and he gave it to me - told me to not to throw it away, but to follow the directions when I needed them the most. The paper was blank, so I humored him. It was a bit of worn parchment so I tried some lemon juice, heat, and even UV light, just out of curiosity. Nothing worked, so I was about to throw it away, when the phone rang. I held it in my hand as I answered. It was from the hospital and they had called to say that Harry was getting worse. I went to throw the paper away again, but I saw some writing had appeared. It was an address. An alley in the south-east of New Cross.

Obviously, I went. There was nothing in the alley except a small dingy door that looked like it led into the basement. I went in and after fumbling around in the dark a bit, I found the only lit room. There was a woman sitting there - I wish I could give you a description, but it’s almost impossible. Her appearance seemed to flow from one thing to another every time I would blink or turn my head. She told me she could save my sister for a price. I don’t know if I believed it but I agreed - I really didn’t bother asking what I would have to pay, because I would have done it anyway. She said the price was spending the rest of my life as a dog. I burst out laughing and when I finally saw she wasn’t joking, I asked why. She said that it was only fitting if I wanted to spend my life serving others. There was no blood oath, no contract - I just left.

I wrote a suicide note and packed my things away again, hiding the paper in one of my books. I walked around a bit, but since I didn’t know when any of this would take place, I avoided the hospital and went back early. When I woke up, I thought I was having some horrible nightmare. Everything was colorless and fuzzy and there were overpowering smells everywhere. I tried to sit, but ended up falling out of my bed. It took me a while to understand, but then I realized what happened.

I took to hiding out in the alleyways for the next week and a half, eating out of skips. My biggest fear was that I would be taken to the pound. At the end, I risked heading out across the city to see my sister. I couldn’t find her at her flat so I tried the cemetery. They were just finishing folding up the flag and handing it to my sister. She was completely recovered - younger and healthier than I’ve seen her in years.

I spent the next two weeks hiding; I learned early on that other dogs hated my smell. I was behind the skip when I saw Sherlock and the cabbie leave. I could smell the lighter fluid in the fake gun and something unidentifiable in one of the cabbie’s pockets. I followed them in, tracking the smell. The rest, I think, you know.”

John sank back into the pillow, his face tired. A thick silence came over the room. Lestrade and Sherlock seemed to be stuck - one with his hands folded in his lap and the other with his hands over his face.

“That was everything I could hope for and more, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said, smiling. “If possible, could I claim that paper from you?”

“Is that really what you’re going to say to me after...all this?” John gestured expansively.

“Quite.” Mycroft’s smile still had not faded.

___________________

Lestrade and Mycroft made their excuses and left shortly after John finished talking. Sherlock remained, but John was resolutely not looking at him. He wanted to disappear from his intense gaze, sink through the bed and never come up. Becoming human again was a sick joke - only a dog for the rest of his life, she had said. However long that was. John didn’t even know where to start getting his life back. Coming back from the dead was possibly even harder than coming back from the war.

“I assume you have only a few more days here until you can come home,” Sherlock simply stated, interrupting John’s thoughts. “You still have to notify your sister, but that shouldn’t take too long if you have a good cover story. I suggest having your suicide attempt fail, causing psychogenic amnesia, and having your memories miraculously recover after being almost killed in a mugging gone awry.”

John just stared, blinking slowly. He hoped he didn’t look as thunderstruck as he felt.

“Home? What home?” he asked dumbly.

“Baker Street.”

“I don’t live with you,” John protested, aware of exactly how wrong that was.

“Yes, you do.” Sherlock looked mildly hurt.

“Let me rephrase. I _can’t_ live with you.”

“Why not? There is a bedroom upstairs, now that you are too big for the box.”

“It’s - it’s - it’s just not going to work.”

“Why not?”

“ _Why not?_ You must be joking. I was a dog. I slept in a bloody box! You walked me around on a damn leash! I’m only grateful you took my ability to use the loo for granted!”

“You mean dogs are not toilet trained? Is it commonly accepted to handle the fecal matter of your pet on a daily basis? The general populace continues to amaze and horrify me.”

“Horrify you? The man who stuck his hand in the stomach of a corpse?” John couldn’t stifle a bark of laughter. “In any case, I can’t live with you. It’s too much.”

“Then where? Back at the bedsit? With your sister? Dull. You enjoy a good case as much as I do. And I need an assistant. You were quite useful as a dog, but now you’ll be invaluable.”

“Why, thanks ever so much.” It came out harsh and mocking, and John could see that it struck Sherlock like a barb. He stayed quiet, but did not leave. The urge to apologize gnawed at John, but he wasn’t about to give in so soon.

“I meant what I said,” Sherlock murmured quietly. John somehow felt that this had nothing to do with the conversation they were having.

“Meant what?”

“When I said I did not want you to go.”

John shut his eyes, letting out a soft sigh. Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down, examining the floor with great interest.

“If you are going to manipulate me, you should try to do so in a less obvious manner.” Sherlock tensed, then quickly stood up and headed toward the door.

“But -” Sherlock froze. “I’m not going to say it didn’t work.”

Sherlock turned back, smiling triumphantly.

“You know the address. Afternoon!” He winked and slipped out the room.

 

 

fin

**Author's Note:**

> John's backstory is taken from my previous work [Trust In Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/247827), but this story is completely unrelated.


End file.
